


Ey, Sahnie.

by frivillig_soldat (orphan_account)



Category: Die Ärzte
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Sahnie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1337320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/frivillig_soldat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All in all, Bela hadn't done too bad with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ey, Sahnie.

**Author's Note:**

> I have not written in aeons.

Farin was a beautiful creature, he thinks, running the very tips of his fingers along the soft slopes of lax, recumbent muscles with a reverent touch. The sight is, as he often reflects with a rush of pure, delighted gratitude, not an infrequent one; nonetheless, he is each time struck anew, with satisfaction and humbled wonder and the tugging, pleasant ache of love.

 

He is asleep, head sunk snug into the welcoming pillow, the pale, almost translucent blond of his hair feathering about his face. Sometimes, when he waxes hopelessly romantic, he nuzzles close and murmurs of angels; his angel (and his only and forever, mind), deterred by neither Farin's quite, amused laughter nor the knowledge of bottled blond, stinging and artificial. Of course, a change of aesthetics wouldn't jog Bela's enamourment in him one whit. That is. Hadn't he looked damn fine with that shock of fiery crimson, too.

 

There are the times he catches Farin sifting the long elegance of his fingers through the strands, rubbing at them with a shuttered expression.

 

It's quite often that he retracts into himself, significantly less often that he speaks of it afterwards, even in obscure, veiled utterances that Bela struggles in decoding, in carefully brushing into the layers of meaning and more often than not losing himself in the shadowy cryptic, and less often still that he allows Bela in, and acknowledges his attention.

 

Despite the closed inscrutability that sometimes has him wanting to fall to the ground in despair and frustration that why did Farin have to be _so damn stubborn_ all the time, Bela can sometimes touch upon the edges of weariness and self-loathing and a myriad other vaguely defined, elusive concepts and feelings, that he has not words enough to express, nor the finesse to draw the delicate strands of spider-silk that might link one mystery to the next and wind them loosely together into a form he could understand, that Farin does but would not.

 

He grazes lightly down Farin's cheek, sharp and fine still after all these years of wear (and he wore it well, too, wore it with an easy smile for the shrieking crowds that somehow fell as special each time). Farin wouldn't like this caress, had he been awake to feel it, Bela muses with a twinge of something that is gone before he can put name to it; he's said many a time - always in a low voice at the back of his throat - that he doesn't want to be petted. Not like this, anyhow.

 

There are many things he dislikes still, although Bela is gladdened, gazing at the restful stretch before him, at - trite as it sounded - how far they'd come. How far, to be precise, they'd left behind the young blond who'd crawled up onto his hands and knees and grabbed at the sheets in handfuls, unable to supress his tremors.

 

That hadn't been their first time: Bela hadn't been - and wouldn't ever be - bastard enough for that. He'd comforted him instead, in his own rambling, inelegant way until Farin had unexpectedly lifted his eyes like a sweeping aside of veils, a smile there that didn't extend to his lips and didn't need to. And Bela had known, then, that he had fallen and was, in addition, damned to be quite content to never find his way out again.

 

He saw, though, shadows of Sahnie at every turn: in smooth lines that bespoke worryingly meek fragility; in the inwards hunch of his shoulders that signified every time his being pushed out to a blank space where his feet didn't reach the ground, not knowing how to deal with the look of what he'd thought to be silent defeat and now isn't so sure; in the frightened movements of hoisting himself onto all fours whilst Bela, terrified by the display, worked tirelessly to turn him round; and, hardest of all to bear, in the ragged little gasps that fluttered from between his lips, wrenchingly painful, and that so the most of all in knowledge of his utter uselessness to aid Farin with it.

 

So he grit his teeth against them, those dry, pathetic sounds. He couldn't violate the careful, precarious balance of unspoken laws and agreements that promised dire, damaging consequences when upset. The affairs weren't his to meddle with; they were between the blond framed in the harsh cut of his jacket, the blond who played the bass (infrequently) and went to university (every damn day) and had hard eyes and a hard mouth and anger between his shoulders, and the other blond, who knocked tentatively on thin hotel doors in the evenings to reappear limping onstage the following day.

 

His self control could only fetter him so long before he'd burst free and lunged at Sahnie with all the wild, concentrated ferocity of a beast unleashed.

 

Afterwards, coming slowly, numbly down from the peak of the vicious spike in his adrenaline, he'd become slowly away of dully throbbing knuckles and a glint of raw grief in shattered shades of blue-grey, and that hadn't felt so good after all. But then he was gone, and with him fluttered any regrets he might have held in a grip of remorse he would never be the prisoner of.

 

_"He's gone," he muttered, almost ashamed to put his deed into words. He wasn't sorry for it, not really, but perhaps he should be, and if he should then maybe it would be better if he -_

 

_"Yes." A glimmer of amusement played in the corner of Farin's eyes. "Yes, he is."_

 

_And then it was fine._


End file.
